unctuousness, until
i.
if the first taste acclimates the palate, my anxiety is a clean slice of fatty tuna, a center-fuse of unsorted childhood fears. a beginner’s bite, on a sushi date, is it rude to use my fingers? clumsy thumbs and forefingers flirt with flesh
the way first lines of poetry used to flirt with my mind. if the right ratio of false confidence feels like the right amount of sexy caramelization and butteriness, then where is the flick of a fat tongue to swipe the fork
clean? does the lack of self esteem and generalized anxiety sting less with age? a drop of bergamont or was it kumquat oil for rejuvenation is not enough to wet my palate to rediscover the sharp brine of pre-teen yea
ii.
since the second taste establishes a foundation, let that spicy basil heat linger everyone is in a rush to change their mindsets, yeast dough rise as tools to guide
practices and discourses disturb organic desires low light pressure to increase fish stock since omissions of truth are louder than detailed descriptions of any lived
experiences stillborn poems are braids tight claws out lungs ignite words soaked in egg yolks deep fried until they are desirable golden or devoid of meaning
iii.
when the third taste allows you to make a decision, do you ever fancy to pick a scab in the middle of a business meeting for fun or does it hurt to suppress the urge? retreat is tricky: as a noun, it means refuge or haven,
but as a verb, it means to run away from the uncanniness of what’s so familiar know when to use your herbs as artillery as endings are trailing sunsets themselves are not beautiful, but a reminder of coral bone broth from the sea
an architecture of sadness. let this choice be your anti-muse, purple skinned
and tear shaped: banana blossoms are fleshy fruit clusters, a pale substitute for fish what’s another word for palatable anticlimactic poems encircle the esophagus
since muteness is not just a diagnosis, but a large landing pad and tasty nectar? closure is just another story we are done telling, this is a departure from eight of cups. eau de nil velvet and oyster tones, when will you just allow yourself to ask for it?
if the first taste acclimates the palate, my anxiety is a clean slice of fatty tuna, a center-fuse of unsorted childhood fears. a beginner’s bite, on a sushi date, is it rude to use my fingers? clumsy thumbs and forefingers flirt with flesh
the way first lines of poetry used to flirt with my mind. if the right ratio of false confidence feels like the right amount of sexy caramelization and butteriness, then where is the flick of a fat tongue to swipe the fork
clean? does the lack of self esteem and generalized anxiety sting less with age? a drop of bergamont or was it kumquat oil for rejuvenation is not enough to wet my palate to rediscover the sharp brine of pre-teen yea
ii.
since the second taste establishes a foundation, let that spicy basil heat linger everyone is in a rush to change their mindsets, yeast dough rise as tools to guide
practices and discourses disturb organic desires low light pressure to increase fish stock since omissions of truth are louder than detailed descriptions of any lived
experiences stillborn poems are braids tight claws out lungs ignite words soaked in egg yolks deep fried until they are desirable golden or devoid of meaning
iii.
when the third taste allows you to make a decision, do you ever fancy to pick a scab in the middle of a business meeting for fun or does it hurt to suppress the urge? retreat is tricky: as a noun, it means refuge or haven,
but as a verb, it means to run away from the uncanniness of what’s so familiar know when to use your herbs as artillery as endings are trailing sunsets themselves are not beautiful, but a reminder of coral bone broth from the sea
an architecture of sadness. let this choice be your anti-muse, purple skinned
and tear shaped: banana blossoms are fleshy fruit clusters, a pale substitute for fish what’s another word for palatable anticlimactic poems encircle the esophagus
since muteness is not just a diagnosis, but a large landing pad and tasty nectar? closure is just another story we are done telling, this is a departure from eight of cups. eau de nil velvet and oyster tones, when will you just allow yourself to ask for it?
A Conversation with Jax NTP
1. Since you published with Crab Creek Review, how has your work grown or changed? What excites you now that maybe didn't back then?
I was too focused only on concrete images, sounds, and the readers' ability to follow the speakers' thought processes in my poems. Although synesthesia, structure, and rhythm remain integral to my current pieces, I'm more excited about language, play, and philosophical bewilderment. I'm intoxicated by the idea that, eventually, I will be able to write and translate my own poems in Vietnamese and French fluently.
2. Is there a particular piece of advice you received that you found yourself returning to as you've written over the years? Is there any advice you would give to writers submitting their work?
Whenever I experience a dry spell in writing or a lack of confidence in my own work, I replay Rainer Maria Rilke's embrace of uncertainty, "Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer" (Letters to a Young Poet). Sometimes, it is important to let go of the need to immediately understand the methodology behind your own words. Live in the moment of your poem and let it guide you. Don't fixate on how the poem will be received.
Advice I would like to give:
1) Submit regularly. Although the process of submitting your work might take even longer than the writing and editing process, don't let perfection paralysis deter you.
2) A poem may exist in many drafts and many forms. There's never an absolute "right" time when they're "ready" to be read or published.
3) There's no need to be "The Next [insert name of your writing inspiration]".
3. What are you reading?
Dictionaries: I'm reading books on how to read and write in different languages: intermediates' Vietnamese and French; beginners' Korean and Italian. Also, an absorbent amount of books on tasseography, herbal healing, and chiromancy.
4. What are you working on?
Currently, I’m working on two full-length poetry manuscripts: In Bones & Tentacles: Forgetting as Commodity and How to Pivot When You’re Paralyzed.
The first project, In Bones & Tentacles: Forgetting as Commodity, explores the queer relationship between language and the body in absurd non-spaces which leans on French Anthropologist Marc Augé's concept of “non-places”. The speaker asks themselves and readers how to escape circular reasoning to establish self-sculpture logic. Each installment unlearns the way the mind was taught to marginalize itself.
My second project, How to Pivot When You’re Paralyzed, consists of epistolary pieces, erasures, and collage work to juxtapose agency vs. inertia: automatic movements vs. immigrant paralysis. This collection explores how the body struggles to unlearn cultural and first-generation immigrant guilt.
In future projects, I want to explore poetry in mixed media. I want to experiment with poetic fragments beyond a superficial level: a rejection of postmodern pastiches to emphasize the instability of genres, fragmentation as unity rather than discord, and the decentering of fixed power dynamics to disturb temporalities and the limitations of linear grand narratives.
I was too focused only on concrete images, sounds, and the readers' ability to follow the speakers' thought processes in my poems. Although synesthesia, structure, and rhythm remain integral to my current pieces, I'm more excited about language, play, and philosophical bewilderment. I'm intoxicated by the idea that, eventually, I will be able to write and translate my own poems in Vietnamese and French fluently.
2. Is there a particular piece of advice you received that you found yourself returning to as you've written over the years? Is there any advice you would give to writers submitting their work?
Whenever I experience a dry spell in writing or a lack of confidence in my own work, I replay Rainer Maria Rilke's embrace of uncertainty, "Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer" (Letters to a Young Poet). Sometimes, it is important to let go of the need to immediately understand the methodology behind your own words. Live in the moment of your poem and let it guide you. Don't fixate on how the poem will be received.
Advice I would like to give:
1) Submit regularly. Although the process of submitting your work might take even longer than the writing and editing process, don't let perfection paralysis deter you.
2) A poem may exist in many drafts and many forms. There's never an absolute "right" time when they're "ready" to be read or published.
3) There's no need to be "The Next [insert name of your writing inspiration]".
3. What are you reading?
Dictionaries: I'm reading books on how to read and write in different languages: intermediates' Vietnamese and French; beginners' Korean and Italian. Also, an absorbent amount of books on tasseography, herbal healing, and chiromancy.
4. What are you working on?
Currently, I’m working on two full-length poetry manuscripts: In Bones & Tentacles: Forgetting as Commodity and How to Pivot When You’re Paralyzed.
The first project, In Bones & Tentacles: Forgetting as Commodity, explores the queer relationship between language and the body in absurd non-spaces which leans on French Anthropologist Marc Augé's concept of “non-places”. The speaker asks themselves and readers how to escape circular reasoning to establish self-sculpture logic. Each installment unlearns the way the mind was taught to marginalize itself.
My second project, How to Pivot When You’re Paralyzed, consists of epistolary pieces, erasures, and collage work to juxtapose agency vs. inertia: automatic movements vs. immigrant paralysis. This collection explores how the body struggles to unlearn cultural and first-generation immigrant guilt.
In future projects, I want to explore poetry in mixed media. I want to experiment with poetic fragments beyond a superficial level: a rejection of postmodern pastiches to emphasize the instability of genres, fragmentation as unity rather than discord, and the decentering of fixed power dynamics to disturb temporalities and the limitations of linear grand narratives.
Jax NTP holds an MFA in Creative Writing from CSU Long Beach. They currently teach critical thinking, reading, and writing through literature and composition courses at Golden West College, Irvine Valley College, and Cypress College. Jax is the Assistant Editor for Fiction at The Offing Magazine. They were the Semi-finalist for Gold Wake Press’s Poetry Book Contest. Their words have been featured in Apogee Journal, Berkeley Poetry Review, Hobart Literary Magazine, Cordite Poetry Review (AU), and PoetHead (Ireland). To read more of Jax NTP’s work, you can find their work on their website.